


awakened by touch

by jhoom



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Touch-Starved, Virgin Nicolo, handjob, medieval era, touch starved nicolo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: It starts as a simple offer of a foot massage after a hard day. Nicolo wishes every day would be so rough, if only so he can feel Yusuf's touch again.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 100
Kudos: 1163
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	awakened by touch

**Author's Note:**

> A [Bad Things Happen](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/) bingo card fill that's nothing but pwp? More likely than you think ;) Today the prompt is: "touch starved"
> 
> come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) where i'm taking prompts for [my current bingo card](https://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com/post/626343042674294785/jhoomwrites-here-is-your-new-card-for-bad-things).

Nicolo collapses onto the ground and groans. He ached all over, a bone deep type of ache that his body cannot hear as quickly and easily as it appears to heal everything else. Perhaps it is not even his body that rebels against him, but a weariness of mind and spirit.

"You look a little worse for wear, habibi," Yusuf says to him. 

No matter how many times Nicolo asks what the word means, Yusuf refuses to tell him. When they first came together in uneasy friendship, Nicolo assumed it was an insult; now he is not so sure. The next time they travel somewhere where they speak Arabic, he will be sure to ask.

"Don't call me that," he grumbles half heartedly. He might not know what it means, but there's something about the way Yusuf says it that he enjoys. "I am fine." 

Yusuf looks skeptical but doesn't argue. He's busy lighting a fire, and Nicolo regrets that he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to help. When he moves to do just that, Yusuf clicks his tongue at him. "You should rest."

"I thought I was resting. That's why we stopped for the night, yes? To rest?" Nicolo waits; Yusuf says nothing more. "I can help—"

"You had a worse time of it than I did. Let me."

That's a bit of an understatement. They have been on the road a few weeks now, not settled long enough to have gotten any work or leads about people who might need men with their talents. But when they'd come across a farm filled with smoke and screams, of course they'd helped. It had been Nicolo who'd walked through the burning house to find the family's missing children, his feet that had gotten burned and ruined as he'd carried the quivering bundles out to safety.

His sandals had been charred and useless, stuck to burned flesh that made it uncomfortable to walk. He'd had to leave it, though, or risk drawing unwanted attention to them as they accepted the family's heartfelt thanks. Hours he'd walked with new skin trapped in the rotten remains of the old.

Only now with just Yusuf and no one else to judge him does he work the burnt leather off his feet. He discards first one, then the other into the fire and winces when the shoot embers into the growing dusk. He pokes at the freshly healed skin, red and blistered in places, and traces the lines indented into his skin from so many hours trapped in the damn shoes. 

“That looks awful,” Yusuf says. His expression is sympathetic when Nicolo looks, making his cheeks flush; it is still strange to see such kindness in Yusuf’s eyes directed his way. He remembers a time when that seemed impossible. 

“It’s fine,” Nicolo says. He flexes his feet. Not as bad as he thought, though he does not look forward to the morning. There are long miles between them and the next town, and he’ll have to do it barefoot. It’s somehow worse that he will cut his feet open each time his foot touches the earth, that it will heal when he lifts it only to be broken anew when his next stride lands. 

“I can help…” Yusuf offers, though _what_ exactly he’s offering, Nicolo does not know. 

“You don’t have to,” he says awkwardly. 

It’s too late. Yusuf is abandoning his seat by the fire, dusting off his hands as he digs through his bag. He’s already in front of Nicolo by the time he finds his voice again. 

“Yusuf, what are you—?” 

“You are sore,” Yusuf says as he settles onto the ground at his feet. He takes Nicolo’s left foot, ignoring the way he curls his toes in surprise, and puts it in his lap. 

“Yusuf!” he squawks, indignant. 

And then Yusuf’s fingers are working into the pad of his foot, between his toes, his ankle, and Nicolo’s protests die in his throat. The path his fingers take are smoothed by oil and somehow he easily finds all the places that were aching. As soothing as the touch is, it’s also maddening. 

Nicolo is not used to touch; it was denied him after he joined the church and it’s eluded him since leaving it. In all the years since he last felt his mother’s embrace or his father’s reassuring hand on his shoulder, he had not thought he’d been missing anything. 

Now, with Yusuf’s hands devoted to his care, he practically melts. 

There is nothing erotic about this moment. Nicolo knows this. He may be inexperienced with sex, but he’s not a child. This is a friendly gesture, one born of a desire to comfort, and nothing more. 

And still, he cannot help the shivers that go through his body, the gooseflesh on his legs just beyond Yusuf’s reach. The slow but unignorable swelling of his cock, the noises he catches in his throat as they try to bubble forth and expose his desire. 

He sits there, rigid in his stillness, and wills Yusuf to notice any of these things. He curses his traitorous body for reacting in a way it should not, and he blames the years (decades?) of isolation. 

When Yusuf finishes his left foot, he moves onto the right as if it’s nothing. It is sweet torture, and despite his discomfort, he cannot bare to pull away. He dreads the moment this ends, when Yusuf’s act of kindness is over and Nicolo must go back to his life devoid of touch. He knows without a doubt he will dream about this for many nights to come. 

“There you are, habibi,” Yusuf says gently when he is done. His eyes glow dimly in the firelight, and it is only then that Nicolo notices that the sun has set. “Do you feel better?” 

Yusuf’s hands are not on him any longer, and he feels bereft. He cannot say this, though, so he settles on a quiet, “Yes, thank you.” 

“Good.” And with a hand to his shoulder, a light squeeze, Yusuf makes things infinitely worse. But then he is gone, only a few feet away as he goes about getting them a meal, but the distance feels insurmountable. “We will eat and then rest. I am tired, and I did not have to carry anyone today, so I can only imagine how exhausted you are.” 

“Very,” Nicolo agrees. He was already tired, and the added emotional strain has made him even wearier. He can barely keep his eyes open, rubbing at them in vain. “Where are the bedrolls—?” 

“Here.” Yusuf immediately abandons the food and unfolds one for Nicolo. Nicolo has the sudden image of Yusuf offering him a hand to help him over, and he immediately gets up on his own to avoid it; he can only endure so much temptation in one night. 

Instead he nods his thanks to Yusuf and pulls his cloak around himself. He curls in on himself, hoping he can mimic the feel of someone else’s hands on him if he can only hold himself tight enough. His back to Yusuf, he focuses on his breathing. 

“Good night,” Yusuf says. There is something in the way he says it that makes Nicolo shudder. 

“Good night,” he says back, and hopes his own voice doesn’t betray him.

~ ~ ~

They travel on. Nicolo’s feet blister by the time they reach a small inn where they can barter for a pair of sandals. The blisters are gone by the time they finish resting, and Nicolo is somewhat annoyed. Perhaps he could have earned Yusuf’s pity one more time, had a repeat of the previous night. 

But no, his feet deny him the excuse and he is too much a coward to ask.

That night by the fire is all he can think about, and it turns his mood sullen for a good week. It is unfair, because he takes some of his moodiness out on Yusuf, but it’s only after he snaps at his companion that he takes a deep breath and resolves to do better. 

“I am sorry,” he says eventually. “I did not mean to yell. Forgive me?” 

Yusuf flashes him an easy smile. “There is nothing to forgive.” He gives Nicolo a considering look. “You are tense. What’s wrong?” 

Nicolo shakes his head; he shares more with Yusuf than he has with anyone else in his life. Even the priests who took his confessions did not know him so well as the man before him does. It is a strange thing, to deny a piece of himself now, after everything else they’ve shared. Whispered fears about faith and God and the _what_ and _why_ of what they are. 

Somehow this, his growing feelings of longing towards Yusuf, that feels too much to dare give voice to. 

He’s thinking about just that as he stares into another fire. He prefers when they have the money and opportunity to stay at an inn or at least in a stable, but sometimes it cannot be done. They are too far between stops or they cannot linger in a town, one of them earning suspicious looks from the townsfolk. Still, he doesn’t look forward to another night sleeping on rocks, even if the kinks in his back work themselves out by midday. 

“Your neck hurts?” Yusuf asks. 

It startles Nicolo, the suddenness of his words; he realizes he has in fact been rubbing at the back of his neck. He stops and shrugs, turning his attention back to his bread and the fire. 

“It’s nothing. I am not injured.” 

Yusuf tsks at him. “That does not mean you should have to endure discomfort when there is someone who can help you.” 

Before Nicolo can ask him what he means (before he can dare _hope_ what it means), Yusuf has settled behind him with a familiar bottle of oil. 

“Take this off,” he urges and tugs at Nicolo’s cloak. Nicolo’s head swims; he can barely move his arms enough to help Yusuf remove it. He still has his tunic on, the thick wool one he’s had since last winter, but without the extra layer, he feels bare. 

He lets his head fall forward, feels Yusuf’s warmth behind him, enjoys the way his legs bracket him in. As much as he’s craved Yusuf’s hands, he cannot deny that he enjoys this as well. The proximity and his scent so rich, so potent with him so close. 

He is expecting how much he’ll be affected, and still it is nothing to having Yusuf’s hands on him again. It’s so much better worse than he remembered. Yusuf’s nimble fingers, the slickness of the oil letting him work out knots Nicolo didn’t know were there until suddenly they’re gone. 

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asks, though he’s unsure where he gathered enough coherence to put together a whole thought. 

“I am a man who wishes to learn everything,” Yusuf says by way of answer. There is a smile in his voice, Nicolo can hear it, and he clenches his fists to hold back a shiver. “Is it good?” 

Now Nicolo cannot help it, his body well beyond his ability to control it. He shudders. The hairs on the back of his neck, right where Yusuf can surely see, can _feel_ them, prickle. There is no hiding his reaction, no denying it if Yusuf asks, so he bites his lip and prays that Yusuf will _not_ ask. If he does not notice, hopefully he will at least have the grace to not acknowledge it. 

“It is very good,” he finally admits, barely above a whisper. 

“I’m glad.” Yusuf’s voice is right in his ear, his breath tickling at the sensitive skin there. It makes him shudder again, makes his dick jerk as it fills and rests heavy against his thigh. “I am glad I can make you feel good.” 

_You make me feel too much,_ he thinks. _I have never felt such things. You ruin me with your touch…_

“I could make you feel better,” Yusuf says, a hint of something dark in his tone. “Would you like that?” 

Nicolo gulps. If he were a stronger man, he would shake his head and politely refuse. He does not _know_ what Yusuf will do, but his whole body heats up with the mere _possibility_ of what it could be. 

“Yes,” he says weakly, because he will not deny himself anything Yusuf wishes to give him. No matter how much it might hurt him later when it means nothing.

Permission given, Yusuf pulls Nicolo closer to him, practically in his lap. Nicolo’s body is pliant and willing; he melts against Yusuf’s chest and leans his head over his shoulder. He can see the stars like this, count them and trace their constellations, all while wishing he could see Yusuf’s eyes instead. 

Yusuf uses one hand to massage Nicolo’s neck, the long line of it that’s now exposed to him. His other hand reaches around Nicolo’s waist and rests heavily on his inner thigh. As he continues the massage on his neck, the barest pretense of an excuse now, he slowly begins to move his fingers. Small circles along his thighs, soft and teasing unlike the hand on Nicolo’s neck and shoulder. 

Nicolo feels like he is on fire. He quivers in anticipation, and he wishes for nothing more than Yusuf to move his hand and take his claim. 

He matches his breathing with Yusuf’s. It’s a steady in and out that goes a long way to calm him.

And it’s only then, once he’s reached some semblance of control, that Yusuf finally moves his hand. 

“Oh!” Nicolo gasps and writhes in Yusuf’s grip. He jerks his cock into Yusuf’s hand and moans obscenely when Yusuf tightens his grip. “Yusuf… I…” 

“Shhh.” Yusuf squeezes his shoulder, then brings his hand around to wrest at the base of his throat. Gentle pressure, but also a warning; he has Nicolo at his mercy, after all. “Let me take care of you.” 

Nicolo’s hand goes blindly to grasp at Yusuf. He grazes his cheek, scratches his beard, before he settles in the mess of Yusuf’s curls. He clutches desperately and it earns him an amused chuckle from Yusuf. 

“Yes,” Nicolo agrees, though he’s not sure if he was even asked a question. “Yes.”

“Isn’t this better, habibi?” Yusuf asks as he starts to stroke Nicolo’s cock. His pace is slow, measured, but Nicolo feels the intensity of it profoundly. He is close already; he won’t last long.

Yusuf places a kiss to the shell of his ear, a kiss that will later haunt Nicolo because he swears he imagined it. “Tell me it’s better. Tell me you’re enjoying how I take care of you.” 

Nicolo whimpers.

“No, habibi. I must hear you. I want to hear your lovely voice telling me that I can make you feel good. Please, or I might have to stop—” 

“Don’t stop,” Nicolo pleads. He does not recognize the sound of his own voice, not wrecked and ravaged as it is. Yusuf’s hand falters for a second but he does not stop; maybe he is surprised as well. “‘s good, so good, Yusuf. Please. Don’t stop or I might die…” 

“Death is nothing,” Yusuf says. “You would come back. I could torture you again and again…” Nicolo whines, perfectly timed with the brush of Yusuf’s lips against his temple. “But I am not a cruel man. I will take good care of you. Let go and let me do that for you."

It is like that, gasping in Yusuf’s arms, that he comes. 

“There you are, habibi,” Yusuf praises and then helps guide a boneless Nicolo to his bed roll. “I will clean you up. Relax. Sleep.”

Nicolo, for better or worse, does just that.

~ ~ ~

They don’t talk about it afterwards. Nicolo cannot bring himself to mention it, and Yusuf acts as cheerful as ever without saying a word about what happened. The days go by, so painfully like the ones before, that Nicolo worries perhaps he imagined the whole thing. It would not surprise him, at this point, that he could build such a vivid fantasy in his mind.

Given that he’d dreamed about said fantasy every night since, he could well believe it was all a dream to begin with. 

It drags on him, makes his mood spiral downward until he can do nothing but scowl at even the most beautiful day. The warmth of the fire does not shake the chill in his heart, and he longs for the days when things were simpler. When Yusuf was merely a convenient traveling companion, and there was nothing more between them than circumstances.

They sleep in crowded inns. In stables brimming with other travelers. On the road with other travelers, offering their swords in protection. It takes nearly a fortnight before they are _alone_ , out under the open sky with nothing but the cicadas and the breeze to keep them company. 

That and Nicolo’s thoughts, unshakeable as always. 

“Lie down,” Yusuf says out of nowhere. He breaks some twigs and throws them into their fire. 

“Lie down?” Nicolo asks. “We have not eaten, I’m not so tired—” 

“You look exhausted. You have not slept well in many nights, if I’m not mistaken. You are like a walking corpse, habibi. You need rest more than you need stale bread.” 

Nicolo scoffs at that and is about to adamantly protest… until he sees Yusuf digging through his bag. He goes still, licks his lips in anticipation, and waits to see what he takes. 

When he sees the vial of oil, Nicolo scrambles out of his cloak and goes to lay down on his bed roll. He is half hard already, and he curses his treacherous, overeager body. There is no reason to think Yusuf means anything— 

“Roll over,” Yusuf instructs. “On your belly.” 

Nicolo does, pinning his cock between himself and the bed roll and leaving himself at Yusuf’s mercy for whatever he has planned tonight. He thinks, _hopes_ it will be worth it. 

“You are always so tense, so tired,” Yusuf scolds. There is genuine annoyance in his voice, and Nicolo wilts a little. “You need to take better care of yourself.” 

“I am perfectly fine—” 

And then Yusuf is straddling him and pushing aside his tunic to expose the expanse of his back to the cool spring air. He shivers reflexively; unlike the other times, he enjoys that Yusuf can not only see but _feel_ the effect he has on him. 

There is no hiding now, and he _likes_ that. 

“What were you saying?” Yusuf asks, a little _too_ smuggly. 

“I could perhaps use some help relaxing,” Nicolo concedes diplomatically. 

Yusuf feigns a sigh. “I suppose I could help you.” 

“Please do.” 

Drops of oil hit his skin first. They smell more fragrant than before, and Nicolo wonders if Yusuf got more the last time they were at a decent market. It makes his movements smoother, more sure. Soon Nicolo loses himself in Yusuf’s touch. He is clay, being broken down from who he was before and becoming someone new under Yusuf’s skilled hands. 

He was aroused the moment this started, and now Nicolo _burns_ with desire. There is nothing he wants more than to be consumed, whether by his passion or by Yusuf himself, he does not know. All he truly knows is he _needs_ more. 

Overcome, Nicolo begins to thrust down against his bed roll— 

Yusuf is gone, his weight disappearing from Nicolo’s back so abruptly he whines. 

“I am here,” Yusuf promises, and then there is a hand on Nicolo’s thigh. He nudges Nicolo’s legs apart, and he obeys without question. “I am here,” Yusuf says again as he pushes the tunic away to bare Nicolo’s ass. 

“Wha—?” he asks and tries to peek over his shoulder. 

A hand on his back pushes him back down. “Shh, I have you. Do you trust me?” 

What a question. Decades ago, it was a resounding _no._ No, he did not trust Yusuf to do anything but die messily on Nicolo’s blade and come back to do the same to him. Everything 

“Yes,” he says and pauses in consideration. It is too easy to say he trusts Yusuf with his life; there were times he has thrown his life away for nearly nothing. Yusuf deserves more than such empty words. “With my soul,” he says instead, because he thinks that is closer to the truth. 

It nearly breaks him when he hears Yusuf take a shuddering breath, the first time his composure has broken. 

“I will try to be worthy of such trust.” He says it like a prayer, a vow to something greater than either of them. 

And then he has a hand on Nicolo’s ass, spreading his cheeks. Nicolo gasps and instinctively shifts closer. 

“Please,” Yusuf begs. His finger circles now Nicolo’s hole, spreading oil and making Nicolo burn with desire. “Please, habibi…” 

He’s not sure what Yusuf is offering. He knows there is more, more ways that Yusuf can wring pleasure from his body; he fears it a little, but his trust in Yusuf outweighs that fear. 

“Yes, please,” he whispers back, and then he seizes Yusuf’s free hand and laces their fingers together. He squeezes, hoping to say with that one gesture all he cannot say with words. 

The intrusion is slow, methodical, but intense. Nicolo tenses around Yusuf’s fingers, and it takes a lot of whispered words of praise and encouragement for him to relax and let Yusuf work. One finger becomes two, then three, and he slides in so easily by the end that Nicolo marvels that such a thing is possible. That his body could give in and accept another, and not only that, but he _enjoys_ it. 

“More,” he gasps. He is thrust back against Yusuf’s fingers now, forward towards the ground, and it is not enough. If he started with one finger and worked this far, surely there is farther yet to go. A sudden realization occurs, and he understands the _more_ that he craves. “I want _you_ inside me.” 

“I am inside you.” A kiss is placed to the small of his back. He crooks his fingers and forces a yelp out of Nicolo. “See?” 

Nicolo’s hands clutch at his abandoned cloak, the edges of his bedroll, the very dirt beneath them. “Yes,” he agrees. “That is not what I mean…” 

Yusuf, mercifully, does not make him explain his request; he’s not sure that he could, if pressed. There is an idea, whispered to him from hushed conversations among the other soldiers. Forbidden things, things that went against God and the nature of man. 

Things he now wants more than Nicolo’s ever dared want anything before. 

When Yusuf’s fingers are gone, Nicolo feels empty and bereft. He is not above begging, and tries to find his voice again to do just that. As always with Yusuf, there is no need; he settles his weight over Nicolo, and then it’s not nimble fingers but the blunt tip of his cock pushing at Nicolo’s loose, wet hole. 

“Yusuf!” he cries as he endures the long, agonizingly wonderful stretch as he body works to take all of Yusuf’s dick. 

“Nicolo,” Yusuf whispers back, planting kiss after kiss to the back of his neck. He nuzzles Nicolo’s hair, breathes him in with deep inhales. “Are you ready?” he finally asks. 

Oh. He didn’t realize he _wasn’t_ ready until he’s asked. Now he knows that he _is_ , it’s almost upsetting that Yusuf isn’t— 

“Move,” he growls. 

He expects Yusuf to laugh or joke at his impatience. He doesn’t. He does as he’s told and begins to thrust in and out of Nicolo like his life depends upon it. 

Though Nicolo can feel the strain in Yusuf’s muscles as he reels himself in, Yusuf takes his time. He is careful each time he moves his hips, with every placement of his hand, with every stray kiss, like he equally wishes to please Nicolo and not break him. 

No, not break him. He is not fragile, as Yusuf well knows. It’s more that he does not want to _overwhelm_ him. That would be easy enough, Nicolo thinks. He’s already on the precipice of drowning. So long without any touch at all, nothing but the harshness of battle, and now it is gentle and pleasurable touches showered upon him. It is almost too much, and he is grateful Yusuf does not give or take too quickly, too fast for Nicolo to ever hope to catch up. 

They build towards the precipice with increasingly strangled noises. Even Yusuf is starting to fall apart, and Nicolo wants nothing more than for that to happen. 

“Please,” he says. His own orgasm is cresting, seconds away, and still he begs for Yusuf. “Please, come with me…” 

“Yes,” is Yusuf’s answer. “Yes.” 

They lie there, tangled limbs and uneven breathing and heartbeats perfectly in sync. The moon rises and starts to fall before they dare move. 

“I will clean you, stay here.” 

“Yusuf—” 

“I insist. Please, let me do this.” 

Nicolo allows it. He is tired, but it’s a good sort of tired. He could fall asleep within seconds if he allowed himself to; he does not allow it. Too long has he let this go unspoken between them. After this… he cannot do it any longer. He is determined not to fall asleep and give Yusuf the easy way out this time. 

To his credit, Yusuf only looks mildly put out when he sees Nicolo is still awake when they are both cleaned of the evidence of their encounter. Seizing his opportunity, Nicolo speaks before Yusuf can avoid it.

“I’ll admit,” Nicolo says as he sits up, stretching his now relaxed and sated body, “I did not know how good that could feel.” 

“What, was that your first time?” Yusuf teases. When he sees the blush on Nicolo’s cheeks, he looks vaguely horrified. “It was!?” 

“I was a priest,” Nicolo mutters and looks away in embarrassment. 

“Many years ago. I thought that surely…” He shakes his head and then reaches over to tilt Nicolo’s chin his way. “I would have been gentler, had I known.” 

Nicolo rests his hand on Yusuf’s forearm and squeezes gently in reassurance. “I would not change things.” 

Yusuf smiles. “For a while I thought you were not interested in me. I suppose now I know better.” 

“I did not know it myself,” Nicolo admits. “This…” He gestures between them. “This is not allowed where I am from. They say it is a sin against God and how he made us.” 

Both of Yusuf’s eyebrows go up. He is tactful when he responds, but it’s clear it takes him some effort. “I do not know if I can understand a view of God that would have him condemn love in any of the forms it might take.” 

Nicolo blushes at the word ‘love.’ It is not how he meant it, Nicolo is sure. Yusuf meant when _other_ men engage in sexual acts together, or perhaps he means it as the brotherly love of two souls with an understanding as deep as theirs. 

“You look upset, habibi. I’m sorry if I—” 

“What does it mean, anyway?” Nicolo interrupts. When Yusuf frowns in confusion, he says, “Habibi. You call me that all the time. What does it mean?” 

Yusuf’s face is carefully neutral. “What do you think it means?” 

Nicolo shrugs. “Bastard fiend. Annoying traveling companion. Useless priest.” 

Now Yusuf’s expression falters and he looks truly pained. “You thought I was insulting you?” 

“We were not on good terms when we started traveling together,” Nicolo says defensively. “You could barely stand to look at me some days. You were sullen and only spoke when the silence stretched too long. And you called me that with such disdain in your voice… what else could it be?” 

“Is that what you thought?” Yusuf’s voice is strained; it sounds like he’s in pain. 

“Yes… why?” he asks suspiciously. “What does it mean?” 

With the utmost care, he takes both of Nicolo’s hands in his; the thumbs trace the lines of his palm and it distracts them both for a moment until Yusuf takes a deep breath and meets Nicolo’s gaze. 

“It means _my love_ ,” Yusuf says simply. “And perhaps at first I was angry about it, but it has never been false from the moment I said.” 

Nicolo stares blankly at Yusuf. His face is so open and honest, no hint of teasing and, more telling, no hint of regret at the admission. Something clicks for Nicolo then. A small shift in how he views the world, himself, Yusuf, and their place together in it. 

“Ti amo,” he says in wonder, surprised how he’d missed it. Such an obvious thing, now that he knows to look for it. How long has his love for Yusuf been there, lurking just below the surface? 

Yusuf interrupts his thoughts with a happy, “I’m glad,” before reaching over to kiss his forehead. Though I have been graced with an abundance of time. I would have seduced you eventually, I think.” 

“Smug, aren’t you? You think you’re that good?” 

Yusuf grins and steals another kiss—a real one, long and tender on his lips—before he pulls away. “If I weren’t, I would _make_ myself good enough to deserve you. I’m sure that is why I have been blessed with this immortality, to slowly make myself worthy of you.” 

It warms Nicolo to hear Yusuf speak so openly about his affection. “Have you always been such a romantic?” 

“I think it was something you awakened when you killed me that first time. It made me pay attention, and since then all I can think about is you.” 

This time, it is Nicolo who bridges the gap. It is the first time he’s let himself move first, to take what he wants; with Yusuf so willing, he thinks it is allowed. 

“In that case,” he says, still so close that his lips brush Yusuf’s as he speaks, “I am glad I killed you.” 

Yusuf’s eyes go wide and he laughs. He reaches over to pinch Nicolo’s sides, to push him over so he can climb on top of him again. “You are so mean, habibi, but so right. I cannot regret dying at your hand if it led us here.” 

“Just admit it. You’re glad you killed me, too.” 

“Which time?” Yusuf asks with pursed lips.

“The first time at least. I think you might have enjoyed some of the others, though.” 

“You wound me so, my heart.” 

The next time Yusuf leans in for a kiss, neither of them is inclined to break it.

**Author's Note:**

> will i be able to write a short 1.2 ish k pwp story? will i ever be able to end a story without joe insisting on being romantic in both words and deeds towards nicky? no, no i apparently will not.


End file.
